A Study In Peanut Butter
by TheGoodDirector
Summary: John just wants to get some rest but Sherlock is restless... and hungry. Rated M for an over eager Sherlock Holmes and a stressed John Watson. AWKWARD, HEATED SEXY TIMES WILL ENSUE.


_**~Monday Morning~**_

Sherlock's perched in his arm chair with his knees drawn up to his chest as he watches John who's sprawled himself haphazardly on the couch.

The Doctor got home from the clinic about an hour ago and just sat himself in front of the telly. No aknowledgements towards the silent detective, nor a single glance around the flat to make sure it wasn't in flames. Just a wary sigh as he took a seat, not even bothering to kick of his shoes, or to get up and make tea. Not that Sherlock wants tea. It was just something he sort of, expected now.

Within the hour, John had nearly fallen asleep six times. His eyelids would begin to drop, his head falling forward slowly so that his chin rested on his chest, until he snapped awake with a sharp breath. He would then set his jaw and try his best to rub the sleep out of his face.

Gears shift in Sherlock's mind.

'A particularlly rough day at the surgery, caused, no doubt, by the obvious dispute with Sarah. They've been arguing for well over three weeks. Blood sugar's low, skipped out on lunch, ergo his blatant exhaustion.'

"John." He calls flatly across the room.

But John's already dozed off again. His eyes are closed and his chest is falling in the slow, familliar rhythm of sleep.

"John!" Sherlock calls louder, this time eliciting a response.

John shifts around, laying flat on his back and stiffens as he stretches out his arms.

"Mmm mwhat? What d'you want?" He drawls lazily, turning over again in an attempt to curl himself into a comfortable position. "Let me sleep."

"You haven't eaten."

"Mm? No, m'not hungry."

"I find that hard to believe. As you only had oatmeal and toast this morning, then skipped lunch. You worked a double shift, that's twelve hours. You should be famished."

"I'll eat later, Sh'lock. M'trying to rest." John mumbles into the Union Jack pillow.

"I haven't eaten since Sunday afternoon."

"Christ, Sherlock, it's Tuesday now!" John exclaims throwing his hands in the air, his eyes still closed. "Eat something."

Sherlock's quiet for a moment and John opens his eyes to peer over at him just to make sure he's still conscious.

"Kitchen's right over there, mate." He says pointing over his shoulder

"We have to make a stop at the grocery. We don't have what I want." The detective states.

"Bollocks." John sighs heavily, scrubbing his hands over his face.

He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Sherlock's chosen an excellent time to be peckish. Maybe if he ignores his flatmate he'll get bored and saunter off. He goes quiet again and his breathing evens out.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrow. "John?"

No movement from the doctor.

"... John?"

"..."

"JOHN!"

John's eyes snap open.

"WHAT?! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S- ORDER IN AND LET ME REST!" He screams, his voice breaking.

"I want peanut butter, John."

John scoffs, leisurely shifting onto his side before sitting upright and burying his face in his hands. Quietly muttering something that sounds like, "Such a child." He's really contemplating going upstairs and locking himself in his room. But the thought of leaving Sherlock to his own devices makes him cringe. Not to mention the ridiculous behavior that will surely follow if he doesn't get what he wants. He leaves his eyes closed for a few more moments before looking up at Sherlock. The detective stands at the door, looking back at him innocently, fully dressed and very ready to go.

"God, you're serious... " John sighs hauling himself off the couch.

Sherlock looks at him quizically.

"Why wouldn't I-"

"No, nevermind... " John waves his hands around and cuts him off. "So, you're coming with me then?" He asks surprised, smoothing out the creases in his trousers.

There are a handful of things Sherlock Holmes never did. Nestled between making tea and feeding himself properly, was the shopping.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, annoyed.

"Honestly, John. Knowing you, you'll get the wrong brand. I can't let you go on your own."

John takes a breath and fights hard to maintain his composure.

"Alright then. We'll go get your damned peanut butter. Just promise that you'll leave me alone for the rest of the day when we get back."

"I promise. " Sherlock swears.

~oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo~

It's a quarter past eight when the men get back to Baker street and John's no longer remotely tired.

The detective's random deducing and snidey remarks keep him alert and on edge. Everywhere they go, he finds himself begging pardon from one person or another. Sometimes, John wonders if Sherlock can comprehend the difference between truth and offence because apologizing for the detective was becoming second nature. But in a way, he didn't mind much anymore, in fact, he hardly noticed half the time.

Sherlock unlocks the door to 221B and bounds up the steps two at a time, John following slowly after him. Sherlock fishes for the jar of honey roasted peanut butter from the Tesco bag that John's still holding in his hands.

He can't help but stare as he watches Sherlock nearly skip into the kitchen for a spoon, then finally nest himself back in his arm chair with a gratified smirk on his face. John smiles. He's happy knowing he can keep Sherlock content. It can be a very rare sight to see the dark detective so pleased, and over a jar of peanut butter no less! Hell. He wouldn't call peanut butter a substantial meal, but going three days without food, it's better than nothing. It's all protein anyway, which John is glad for.

He goes back to his spot on the couch and kicks off his shoes. Finally, some rest. Although he's not as tired as he was earlier, it feels good to just sit back and relax. The news is casting on the telly, but the volume is down and he can't quite hear the story. He begins to think about what he's going to make himself for dinner when his attention is shot by the sound of a very quiet but very deep and explicit moan.

He calmly drags his eyes over to Sherlock and he automatically wishes he hadn't.

Sherlock's draped himself over his arm chair loosely. His eyes are closed, nearly fluttering and he's sucking peanut butter off that spoon like it's his job.

John suppresses a squeak and swallows hard. All of a sudden the room's gone a few degrees warmer. He wants to pretend that Sherlock's display doesn't bother him. But it's difficult. John hasn't had a proper shag in months. Every girl he's tried to bring around is scared or scorned off by his flatmate. By this point his carnal motives are going to drive him off the edge, and the show that Sherlock's putting on isn't helping at all. He stands up and walks into the kitchen.

"Tea?" He asks, hoping his voice doesn't crack.

"Perfectly fine with this." The detective says taking another lick before shoving the utensil in his mouth and sucking.

The doctor swallows, watching as Sherlock pulls the spoon back out, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

"Mm, I have to say, peanut butter is one of the most spectacular things I've tasted in my entire life." He says breathlessly, eyeing his blogger who's standing stiffly by his lab table.

John laughs fixedly, trying to keep his gaze averted. "I wouldn't blame you for thinking so. It's the onlything you've eaten in days, Sherlock."

Sherlock moans around another spoonful, causing John's ears to redden.

"Would you like some?"

'Christ, those noises, they sound forbidden. Perhaps he's unaware tha- Wait, did he ask a question? He's looking at you, you stupid git say something!'

"Wha? Oh, no, I'm fine thanks." John says, trying to play it off.

'No harm, leave him be. Just another one of Sherlock's quirks. He wouldn't be doing this on purpose. Ignore it and make the damn tea.' He rubs his sweating palms on his trouser leg and feigns through the cupboards for the Earl Grey hopelessly.

"Really, John. I've never tasted anything quite like this."

John laughs, getting a bit irritated. It's gotten hotter, so it only makes sense that he peels off his jumper. It comes off his shoulders, leaving some of his hair spiking out on one end.

"I said, I'm fine. I'm gonna have a shower, alright?"

Sherlock looks down at the jar in his hands, then back at John who's left standing in his jeans and a simple black sleeveless shirt. Which elicits a strange feeling in his groin. Odd.

"I'm afraid I'll just have to keep insisting then." He says with a cocky shrug, running his tongue seductively around that... damned lucky piece of silverware.

John rolls his eyes and gives in. If it gets the relentless stiff off his back, he'll do it.

"Fine, one taste." He says walking onto the carpet.

Sherlock practically undresses the rest of the soldier with his eyes as he advances. The black top hugs him nicely. He can see the firm definition in John's forearms and shoulders. Impeccable tone in his pectorals as well. Although John isn't as fit as he was in the army, he notes that the doctor is still in remarkable shape as his gaze falls over John's still remarkably lean hips. The young man feels his pants get tight and his face flushes. Breath shallowing.

Jonh looks around and shifts nervously as he stands in front of the Great Sherlock Holmes.

"Where's the spoon then?" He asks, fidgeting, growing impatient.

He really just wants to take a shower, have a wank and go to bed. Why does Sherlock have to make things so difficult?

A smirk teases its way out from behind Sherlock's tight lips.

"I must've dropped it."

John raises and eyebrow and sighs.

"No matter." Sherlock assures.

He takes his index finger and runs it through the top layer of peanut butter, dabbing up a smidge of the creamy condiment.

"Here." He says cooly, holding it up to John.

John's eyes narrow, like what he's seeing can't really be happening and he's trying to calculate what he's missed. He chuckles faintly only to realize how serious Sherlock really is. His heart jumps to his throat. He swallows hard as he points a trembling finger towards the bathroom. Maybe he can talk himself out of this.

"I was... a show-" His voice breaks. 'Damn it...'

"I really do insist, John." Sherlock's voice is no more than a whispering, animalistic growl.

John tries to take a steady breath through his nose. He knows that Sherlock's well aware of his mental status. He's neverous. But what should be the fear? He'd only be sucking the peanut butter off of his 'god like' flatmate's finger.

'God like.. ? What.. ?'

Before he even realizes it, he's on his knees by Sherlock's side. Eyes leveled with that long, graceful hand suspended over the arm of his chair.

A fire burns in the virgin's chest as he watches John fall to his knees. All facial expressions a clear indication. 'Keen to take orders. Hesitantly submissive. Nervous but eager. Ultimately willing. Undeniably gorgeous.' Sherlock knows John doesn't mind. All signs of attration are here, kneeling before him.

John looks up into Sherlock's waiting face and what he sees makes his blood boil and rush South towards his extremities. The Detective's lips have parted and his pupils are blown so wide, only two silver rings are left staring back at him. His breaths are heavy. Even but deep. He swears this is an experiment, but something has him wanting it to be more than that. John knows he wants this. John knows Sherlock knows he wants this, and that's satisfyingly terrifying. He takes another nervous breath.

"Sher-"

"Shhh."

Sherlock reaches out and slowly runs his thumb across John's bottom lip. He can hear and feel John's breath catch against his finger tip and the soldier finds himself leaning into Sherlock's touch. A brave, slight graze of his lips against Sherlock's open palm has him trembling. Something in John expected the detective to recoil or pull away. As he never knew Sherlock to be keen on inimate or any physical contact. But instead, Sherlock's melting out of his chair, slowly joining John on the floor in front of the fireplace.

John's pale eyes fall into Sherlock's dark cascading gaze. They study each other intently until the doctor comes around long enough to find half his voice.

"What are we doing, Sherlock?" He barely whispers.

Sherlock's silent for a short while, never taking his eyes off John.

"Something completely neccessary." He says, his voice impossibly lower than John's.

Sherlock licks the peanut butter off his own finger shyly. His blood's running quick, making his heart pound at a desperate pace. Watching John in this light, his face half cast in shadow as the fire burns beside them. His mind floods.

_**'Electrifying arousal. Surging endorphins. Fluxing mental and physical stimulation. Not unlike the effects of synthetic catalysts. Noted. Dr. Captain John Hamish Watson, is a drug.'**_

They're on each other in moments. Rather. John's on Sherlock, straddling the taller man's lap.

Sherlock doesn't know where to put his hands. Hips? Back? Chest? Face? He tries not to panic and attempts to give himself a few seconds to gather data. Before long he's mimicing John's movements, bucking his hips into the good doctor's groin Dragging beautiful noises out of him as their lips tug, suck and bruise. Sherlock finds his hands slipping underneath John's shirt, running them over his smooth, well toned chest and caressing perked nipples.

'JesusBloodyChrist.' John thinks. This is Sherlock Holmes he's grinding against. These are Sherlock's hands stroking his body. These are Sherlock's lips kissing him back. A breathy growl escapes him and his weight becomes too much.

Sherlock watches as the soldiers head falls back graciously, leaving his throat exposed. A deep hunger settles in him when he catches sight of John's pulse oscillating beneath the hot, sensitive skin of his neck. Before he can sink his teeth in, their front door is thrown open.

It's Mrs. Hudson, accompanied by Lestrade.

John and Sherlock don't dare move an inch. The main reasons being their painfully tented trousers. All they can do is gaze calmly upon their Landlady and the Detective Inspector as the fight to get their breath back under control.

Lastrade stares at the two of them on the floor, mouth hanging open for a few moments before clearing his throat and diverting his gaze awkwardly.

"Oh, now look at the two of you!" Mrs. Hudson beams. "You boys are just too sweet!"

She throws her hands in the air. "Don't let me levy." She says making her way back downstairs. "I'll leave you boys to your work."

The flat is very quiet for a few seconds before Lestrade speaks up. He tries hard not to let his eyes linger on the detective and the doctor for too long.

"Do get on with it, Lestrade." Sherlock quips, impatient and annoyed already.

"I, uh- Well." He clears his throat again.

"Honestly, I never took you as a sideliner." He adds, a mischevious grin on his face.

Lestrades eyes grow wide and he sputters.

"Wha- I- I..."

John rolls his eyes and smiles, letting his head fall against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Leave the poor man alone, Sherlock. He's had one too many shocks already." He says sliding off his lap, finally finding it safe enough for the both of them.

They stand and smooth out the creases in their clothes. Apart from their flushed complexions and disheveled hair, their demeanor is now completely professional.

"So, what do you have for me?" Sherlock asks, his tone back to its serious disposition.

"Right, uh. There's been a triple homicide at The Shard."

"Magnificent! Shall we head out?" Sherlock says grabbing his coat and rushing out of the flat.

Lestrade looks at John who's smiling sheepishly. The doctor just draws his lips in, pivots on his heel and walks to the door, gesturing to the D.I that it's time to leave.

"Yes. Shall we?" He chimes, his heart fluttering like mad.


End file.
